Capcir Spring - The opening pages - Start to read here

Chapter One

The
small settlement, nestling in a wide clearing on the floor of the
high valley, was silent after the last activities of the day. The
stockade gates were shut and there was no movement in or around the
thatched wooden huts inside the boundary of the heavy timber fencing.
All was still except for an isolated spiral of smoke drifting up from
the glowing cinders of an outdoor earth hearth. The last daylight was
sinking above the outline of the distant mountain peaks and the sky,
which moments before had been red was turning slowly through purple
to blue black.

An
owl hooted twice and was almost immediately answered by another from
the other side of the valley. And then there was fire. Fire was
approaching the stockade from up the valley and down. At first there
were just a few torches but all the while their number expanded into
a mighty army of individual flames that together brought a flickering
orange glow to the leaves of the overhanging trees and even to the
night sky itself. From among the mass of torches flaming missiles
flew through the night air and almost immediately the roof of one and
then another of the thatched huts was alight.

A
sudden anguished cry ripped through the darkness as the sleeping
villagers were harshly shocked out of their slumbers. More screams
filled the night air as people of all ages were kicked awake and ran
at first in blind confusion but then, lemming like, together, to find
sanctuary in the chapel, the one stone building of the settlement, at
the centre of the stockade. The noise and light and fire seemed to
be coming at them from all sides. The gates had been broken down and
the fiery torches were inside. They were moving closer, advancing
slowly, setting aflame all that was in their pathway. Where was
safety now? The chapel was crammed full of frightened, trembling
bodies. The air was heavy with the smell of fire and sweat and fear.

I
too followed the crowds and headed for the chapel. It already seemed
full. I could hardly get in. As one of the last to arrive I was
standing in the doorway. I could feel the press of bodies cowering
behind me but I was facing outwards. The chapel was too small. There
were too many people and it was too late to bar the door. They were
almost upon us. In the torchlight the approaching faces were gross
and distorted. I could see that they were full of rage and hatred.

Then
I saw James. There could be no mistake. The same familiar outlines,
the gangling gait, the prominent forehead and weak chin. The
torchlight deepened the shadows under his sunken eyes giving his face
a menacing quality. He was at the front of the crowd. It was James
who was leading them on and they were chanting in unison. He was
leading the rhythmic chant. I didn't understand the words but I
sensed a pure hatred tinged with fear. His face was distorted in an
violent grimace of blood lust that I had seen once before. Their
anger bit into my flesh as physical pain. In his right hand was a
sword. Slowly, with small steps and in time with the chanting they
moved ever closer.

Angry
men with torches and swords and spears and staves were beside him and
a mass of hate filled faces were crowding behind. Their advance
inched forward step by step. The cowering mass behind me in the
chapel was now screaming. Voices of young and old united in a
crescendo of terror, prayer, supplication and fear. And then they
were at the door, a few yards from my face. One from the advancing
throng threw a flaming torch over my head and it sailed over me into
the crowded chapel. I was conscious of a strong pressure from behind
as those inside moved to avoid the fiery missile. Bodies pressed
against trembling bodies and I was being pushed inevitably towards
the enemy. I was being forced forwards. I was being forced to move
closer and closer to the raw hatred and the swords and the fire and
the certainty of death. Oh God! No! No!

*****

The
scream pierced the silence of the Pyrenean mountain valley. It was a
sultry day in early May. The sky was a cloudless blue, typical of
that region of France. John was hot. He had been walking for several
hours and though it was not long since his lunch break, he was again
looking for somewhere out of the glaring sun to rest. He was ambling
gently down a track that wound into a little wide floored clearing in
the valley with some ancient stone ruins. Then there was a scream. It
was a sound he remembered vividly. It started quite softly almost as
a low pitched, half stifled murmur but it gradually grew louder
until a high pitched whine flooded the lightly wooded valley and
echoed round the rocks and hills above...............................

In this
novel of about 70,000 words, set in contemporary France, Jean de Beurre
brings together insights from psychology, history and theology in a
romantic adventure.